


Harry Potter and the Knights of Hollow

by KippingKittens



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Female Solo, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Multi, Ritual Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KippingKittens/pseuds/KippingKittens
Summary: This is set at the close of the Second Wizarding War. Voldemort is dead, but Bella escaped. Something sinister threatens the tentative, hard-won peace of Wizarding Britain.I give you plot and juicy smut (so far smut involves Harry and Ginny, Bella, and Pansy - more to come)!The events of Nineteen Years Later and Cursed Child do not occur in this timeline. I am allowing the characters to live as I see them, and beyond a rough sketch for the overall plot, I have little idea how things will develop. I'm doing my best to both make the explicit stuff steamy, and the plot make sense.I won't be giving any spoilers here, mostly as I'm still writing it. Please be patient. The road map is to have a few explicit relationships pop up, but I'm laying down the groundwork right now, and so far the above mentioned was all I could do - and, it seems, an orgy - who knew?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Kudos: 9





	1. PART 1 - The Dust Settles

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters and the world described here are the trademark and property of J. K. Rowling and those publishers who may own distribution/publishing rights. For good measure, the rights to all Wizarding World movies are the property of Time Warner. My point being, I don’t own any of this, but shit it’s a fanfic, you knew that.
> 
> Disclaimer cont.d: You will notice some themes and references from other fanfics - I can’t remember exactly which ones and am happy to add credits if pointed to the original author, and so far as my right to use these concepts are concerned, I would point you to the same fair use policy we cite like gospel when we write fanfic.
> 
> World Note: AU. This work diverges at the exact point that Molly challenges Bellatrix during the Battle of Hogwarts. I have reimagined the motives of various characters and have dumped ‘Nineteen Years Later’. 
> 
> Relationships: Harry/Ginny so far
> 
> Rating: E

**PART 1 - The Dust Settles**

_Chapter 1_

’NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!’

Mrs Weasley cast Hermione, Ginny and Luna aside in righteous fury. Harry watched, torn between terror and elation he stopped, and faltered in his stride, his attention on the slashing and twirling of the matriarch’s wand. Bella snarled as the stone beneath the witches’ feet grew hot and cracked, and Harry risked a glance her way even as Slughorn cried out.

The intensity of the two fights, Weasley and Lestrange, McGonaggall, Slughorn and Kingsley and Voldemort, caused the crowd to split apart. Entranced as he was by what he saw, Harry hardly noticed the limping boy grazing past him as he made for the side of the Great Hall. The Cloak snagged and fell off him, revealing him to the hundreds gathered there.

There are moments when everything seems to happen at once. The Hall seemed to contract as the crowd drew their breath. Bellatrix Lestrange, her head thrown to the side as a jinx sailed an inch past her ear, faltered as she spotted him. McGonaggall, Kingsley and Slughorn blasted backwards, flailing and writhing through the air. All was silent as a split-second stretched out for an age. Then sound returned, and the Hall flashed red and silver.

Bellatrix seized up, rigid as a board, as Mrs Weasley locked her into a Body-Bind Curse and the nearest windows shattered with the force of Harry’s Shield Charm even as Voldemort raised his wand at the Weasley matriarch. Now, as before, and as foretold, Harry faced Tom.

What followed was almost sedate in comparison, yet in only hours it would become the stuff of legend. With the flaw in the plan revealed and the palaver had, their spells collided in golden flame, the Elder Wand flew high, and as neither could live whilst the other survived, the Seer’s words were fulfilled. Harry stared down at the shrunken shell and wondered, if only for a moment, what might have been if only this orphan had known love.

Amidst the screams; amidst the cries, the cheers; amidst the orgy of noise, bodies, the fervour and uproar, Harry barely registered the mane of shining, black hair fleeing past the crowd. He did not, yet, wonder what had caused the Body-Bind Curse to lift, nor did he appreciate its implications.

_ Chapter 2 _

When all was said and done - but that _is_ a fantasy. Wars never just end. Consoling the bereaved, sharing a drink for the dead, gazing out across mountains and forest and lake bathed in the rays of a rising sun. The juxtaposition of the mundane finality with which his enemy’s body hit the floor, the image replaying every time he closed his eyes in granular, film-like quality, with the transcendent metaphor of the rising sun may very well mark a grand finish to Rita Skeeter’s article (no, she’d milk this, think _book_ , or volumes of books) neatly summing up the close of the Second Wizarding War, but Harry knew this for the illusion it was.

Episodes in history were never just that, never just episodes. Perhaps that was why he had never felt too drawn to History of Magic (it was a better excuse than boredom). To sum up a war or a period of time as an episode, a neat volume, is to tell a bitter lie, a children’s fiction. As Harry regarded the Malfoy’s huddled together in the Great Hall, three people tottering on a knife’s edge, he finally divorced himself of a child’s notion of history.

People, and, above all, the ideas they have, have a way of enduring. Sure, he had killed (did that count as killing?) Voldemort, thus bringing an end to open hostilities that you might fool yourself into thinking was the end of the war, but hadn’t Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald? Hadn’t this story played out so many times before?

It was difficult to discern the emotions on the Malfoy family’s faces, but one thing was clear. Harry, the Order, the ‘winning’ side for lack of a better word, had a few options open to them. They could, and most definitely would, try to bring about an era of peace and prosperity for the Wizarding world and, above all, prevent anything like the Death Eaters and Voldemort from happening again. But even as Harry stared at the conflicting emotions on Narcissa’s strikingly beautiful face, Harry feared for the future.

It was, perhaps, the benefit of a Muggle upbringing that gave Harry this moment of clarity. Wizards were, after all, incredibly insular and ignored much of what happened in the larger world, but Harry had spent much of his childhood and most summers listening to news of the world around him. News of separatist movements, of rebellions, of battles for hearts and minds, of ill-conceived conquest and proxy wars. 

Above the general chatter, the jubilation and the quieting cries, Ernie Macmillan’s pompous, though friendly, voice carried, his own analysis and predictions for what a Ministry led by Kingsley Shacklebolt would look like reaching any ear that would hear it. Harry struggled with this thought. He admired and respected Kingsley a great deal, and truly believed that he would stop at nothing to be a fair and progressive Minister, albeit temporary for now. But as he stared into space, the scars on the back of his hand tingled. Could one good man really be able to change an institution Harry knew to be so deeply flawed? Wasn’t the very notion of the Ministry rooted in the Other-isation of the Muggle world, therefore intrinsically placing those things and people associated with the Muggle apart from, and, often, beneath Wizards?

Harry shook his head. He had been up for too long, been through too much, to allow his mind to ramble like this. There was one thing Harry did know, however. He was their symbol. With or without his consent, he was going to become a poster boy. Memories of Scrimgeour’s lion-like mane made him shiver, but the sudden realisation that he was sitting beside Luna brought him back into the present. There would be time to consider his role later.

_ Chapter 3 _

Tired as he was, sat upon the seductively marshmallow-like bed in Gryffindor Tower, fatigue gnawing away at him rendering his eye-lids densest lead, Harry refused to give in as he ate the sandwich Kreacher had brought him and listened to the house-elf’s tale.

They had been right in not summoning Kreacher to them when (it seemed a million years ago now) they had been forced to leave Grimmauld Place. Yaxley had done his utmost to harass the poor elf, and though Harry admitted it would normally be a cold day in Hell that he would be grateful for anything Voldemort did, for once he was glad to hear that Tom hadn’t deigned fit to question the elf personally. 

‘Will Master Harry be returning to the House of Black later?’

‘I think I will, yes, though I thought I might ask Professor Flitwick to give me a hand with shoring up the defensive enchantments so I might wait for him to recover and be free. Maybe wait here at Hogwarts until I give you the all clear, I don’t know who might know the address now and want revenge.’

‘A good idea, Master. I shall await your call.’

‘Kreacher, wait, I want to give you something before you go,’ Harry kneeled down, pulling out the broken remains of the locket Horcrux from inside his robes. ‘ This is for you. I just wanted you to have it - Master Regulus’ work is done.’

After much crying and expressions of thanks, the elf departed and Harry, after what felt like a lifetime, Harry finally succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

*

It took a while for Harry to realise the warmth against his midriff wasn’t his duvet. Breathing in deeply, the familiar scent of flowers became all he could think of. His eyes still closed, he arched his back, stretching out and into the person lying beside him, his crotch pressing into the firm, yielding softness before him. The other person sighed contentedly as he luxuriated in the contact, growing harder with the passing seconds.

Ginny rolled around on top of him, pinning his arms above his head as his eyes fluttered open. There was a hard, blazing look in her eyes, the same look she had given him so long ago in the Gryffindor common room. Without his glasses, everything beyond Ginny was but a blurry mess, but he couldn’t spare a thought for anything else anyway. He was consumed in her face, memorising every detail, each tiny cut, the hard setting of her jaw, the blush spreading across her freckles, the specks in her bright brown eyes. 

Her hair fell, curtains of vivid, flaming red that caught the sunlight streaming in through the windows, cutting Harry off from all but her. Her nose brushed his. As her lips grazed his, he sighed. Taking the opportunity, her tongue played with his lips, parting them, before engulfing him in a kiss that dominated his everything.

Moving his hands together, she pinned them to the pillows with one hand as the other ripped open the buttons to his shirt. Their tongues danced together, rubbing against each other, their saliva one and the same. The trousers Harry had fallen asleep in were now excruciatingly tight, but all he could do was squirm and rub his stiff crotch into Ginny. Judging by her purrs, she liked that.

Ginny’s fingers played across Harry’s hard, bare chest, flicking his hardening nipples as she traced the scars that marked him. She seemed to be counting the ones she knew and each time she discovered a new one her kissing grew in intensity. Tracing, memorising him, her fingers met the scar the locket had left on him. She broke their kiss, leaving him shuddering in anticipation, and his eyes, which had been screwed shut in longing, opened to meet her unblinking gaze. He was surprised to see tears pooling in her eyes.

‘This one’s new,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

‘Well, I was going to get that Horntail tattoo you suggested, but this seemed more edgy.’

‘Try-hard,’ she teased him as she bent her head down and kissed the lines along his neck the locket’s necklace had marked back in that frozen pool, letting her tongue and full, softly brushing lips lead her to the locket’s mark. She stopped, her lips hovering over the unsightly scar, her hair blocking her eyes from him, and Harry felt drops land onto his chest. ‘I- He- When you- When I saw you there, lying there, I was-’ but Ginny started shaking so badly Harry knew what she was referring to, could only begin to imagine how he would have felt had he seen her lifeless body lying on the ground at Hagrid’s feet.

He tried moving his arms, and when he encountered no resistance, he removed them from Ginny’s grip gently and folded his arms around her. He held her like that, whilst she sobbed noiselessly, and tried to say with his gesture what words could not. He knew then that she was crying not only for fear of losing him, that wouldn’t have been like her, but for Fred, and Remus, and Tonks, and the horror of having to fight a battle at the age of 16 and the embarrassment of allowing fear to crawl its way in and the shame of being thankful to still be alive whilst so many lay dead for he too felt these things and in that moment, they were one.

Minutes passed and Ginny’s shaking subsided. She looked up from his chest and met his gaze. ‘Take me.’

Pulling her up to him, Harry kissed her hard, and moved her over to his side where she lay, her hair splayed. Fighting with his trouser buttons, he tore them off even as Ginny cast off her blouse, leaving herself only in her cotton slip panties. Naked and hardening once more, Harry straddled Ginny and ran his fingers through her hair. That blazing mane of flames that had so often caught his attention parted at his touch. He ran his hand gently behind her head and raised her so that their lips would meet once more. All the while Ginny looked at him, her gaze possessive, her expression hungry. 

Their tongues played. Harry’s left hand wandered down Ginny’s spine as his right supported her head. When his fingers met the line of her panties, she growled and bit his lower lip, pushing against his chest with both hands. ‘Are you going to make me beg? I want you, Harry, now!’ For the first time Harry’s eyes left her face and he took in her body. Toned through years of Quidditch, her pale skin bore a few scars, scuffs and bruises from the night before. The monster in Harry that had for almost a year fought for Ginny’s attention roared at the sight of these marks, proof of her bravery and skill, and yet painful reminders that Harry could not fully protect those he loved as he felt he ought to.

Her breasts moved with her breathes as she watched him drinking her in. Little pebble-like nipples sat rock-hard astride her small, pale breasts. They were firm and full of promise. Harry’s mouth watered as he looked at them. His stiff penis throbbed, bouncing against Ginny’s abdomen. She smiled, the trails of silent tears still fresh against her cheeks. ‘Like what you see?’ she whispered.

‘Let me show you how much,’ he responded as he bent to kiss her chest in between her breasts, closer to her heart.

‘Be quick, I need you in me,’ Ginny sighed against him as his lips explored her body. He wanted to know, wanted to taste, every part of her, from her armpits to her toes, but, as though responding to her words, the need swelled in him and his penis seemed to strain against its own skin, so painfully hard had he gotten. As he passed her bellybutton, pausing only to let his tongue flick across the tiny cavity, his teeth pulled on her slip panties and he caught her aroma. 

Amortentia may have captured the lingering scent of Ginny, flowery and familiar, but this was a scent that threatened to drive him to madness. All at once he longed to dive into it, to be consumed by it, to drown in its depths. Pulling her panties down and clear, he spread her thighs and was greeted by her shining petals, glittering as though with fresh morning dew. He drew in a deep breath that made Ginny purr, and sucked on the soft, pale flesh of her inner thighs, alternating from one to the other, moving further up with each round.

When he at last reached her glistening pussy, tufted with a small patch of light red hair at the top, he let the tip of his nose rub against her mound, just above her clit. Sticking his tongue out, he traced lines on either side of her pussy, but refused to go any further in, never letting his tongue come into contact with her clit or inner lips.

‘Oh, FUCK!’ Ginny growled, her hands clamping down into Harry’s messy hair, her legs wrapping around his torso. ‘Stop being such a fucking tease already! I want you to fill me up already, please!’ Her frustration turned to a sibilant moan on the last word as Harry finally licked her, his tongue broad and flat, from the base to the clit, collecting every drop of juice she had to offer. 

Though he could have done that forever, he too echoed her longing to be joined as one. Shifting himself up, he met her eyes once more, taken in by the unappeasable hunger he saw there, his penis grazing her mound. Her legs locked under his tense buttocks, her hand grasped his shaft, and she angled his head to her opening. ‘Fuck me,’ she spat up at him, flames in her eyes. So, he pushed.

She was tighter than he could have ever imagined. It was almost a miracle she parted for him, but part she did. They both let out low, urgent moans, all language lost to them in the pleasure and desire which coursed through them. He drove into her until he was grounded to the hilt, her walls contracting around him as he pulsated with every beat of his heart.

He gasped, his eyes screwed shut in concentration as he fought to still his urge from spilling over. At that moment, the remnant of death still upon him, he needed to take her, to lay claim to her, in the most primal way possible. He needed to prove to himself that yes, he was alive. His throbbing subsided. His eyes opened. Slowly, he pulled back, Ginny’s hard nipples grazing against his chest as he did so.

‘Yes, like that, again,’ Ginny exhaled, her hands clawing for purchase on his back. When there was only his head left, he paused, breathed, and split her apart again. 

Her breasts squeezed between them. The four poster bed shook with the urgency of their movements, Harry driving into her, Ginny raising her hips to meet his. With every thrust Ginny’s mons rubbed against Harry’s, and her sharp breathes when they rubbed at a certain angle told him exactly how much she liked it.

Harry entered Ginny hard and fast, pushing her deeper into his bed. They kissed, biting each other’s lips, moans and grunts escaping without conscious thought. All that existed was the rhythmic pumping and grinding.

Ginny’s legs tightened around Harry. ‘Fuck, I’m gonna cum, keep grinding my clit!’

Her words were blessing and curse to him. Driving as deeply as he could, he started rotating, grinding into her side-to-side, trying to catch her clit with his mound. He kept grinding even as her breathing became jagged and then, her face crumpled in concentration, her nails dug into his back hard enough to draw blood, and she came, shaking, contracting around him. Her pussy seemed to almost be milking him urgently, and that was all it took. Exhaling a cry, his eyes shut, he kissed Ginny on the neck, biting what flesh he could find, and came.

His hips shook, his arms wrapped around her, her breasts pushed against him as he continued to bite on her neck, not hard, but lovingly. His cum pumped into her even as her walls continued to contract around him, urging him on.

It seemed eons before he was done, and for a long while, all he could do was lie there, on top of her and inside her. She stroked his hair as he came down, his arms still cradling her. 

Years later, or it may have been seconds, he rolled off of her. They lay there, catching their breath. Harry was torn between luxuriating in the afterglow of their union and allowing his mind to think about everything else in the world. He turned to look at Ginny, whose hands were absentmindedly toying with her abdomen, and decided the world could wait at least until he went down for breakfast.

‘Good morning,’ Harry said, lying on his side, the better to see her with. She laughed and turned over to face him.

‘Now he remembers to say it!’ she grinned, leaning forward and kissing him. ‘There was me thinking maybe all of you in the boys’ dorms greeted each other with this,’ she grabbed his spent penis and gave it a playful squeeze, ‘in the mornings.’

‘Well if you object, I’m sure I can find it in me to greet you orally in the mornings,’ he smirked.

‘Careful, I might just take you up on that.’

Frowning, Harry looked at his drawn drapes properly for the first time since waking up. ‘Ginny, the drapes are open.’

‘Yeah, they get a bit stuffy in May.’

‘And… did we have an audience?’

‘What? Oh! Oh, no,’ she giggled at the thought, ‘no, yesterday when you came up here Kreacher told everyone you were not to be disturbed on pain of suffering his displeasure, and since most of the families of the people who stayed and fought came by the end of the fight, a large bunch returned home, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.’

‘To ourselves, interesting…’ Harry’s hand caressed Ginny’s hip, sliding over her firm cheek and along her thigh.

‘Believe me, I’d love to, but world awaits.’

‘A part of me wants to keep them waiting, maybe even forever.’

‘I can understand that, but they need you. You’ve earned a break, it’s just a little more and then you can rest.’

Harry looked into her eyes, so confident and assured in the promise of future rest and respite. He chose to believe her and, together, they washed, dressed, and went back into the world.


	2. PART 2 - …Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry looks to his future, and is met with a surprise.

**PART 2 - …Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble**

_Chapter 4_

It was 3 days later that Harry left Hogwarts for London. They had spent that time working tirelessly to repair the castle and restore those defences that Voldemort had cracked wherever they could. There were larger, far more complex spells needed to truly restore the castle to its former glory and strength, but the professors agreed they could work on those until September. As the whole year that had come to pass was mostly a dud, they could start in June instead of the end of July. Hermione’s relief at the announcement that students would be able to repeat a year on the old curriculum was met with good natured exasperation from Harry and Ron. 

‘But Harry, you’re going to need to pass your N.E.W.T.s to get into Auror training!’ Hermione said when she discovered it was not Harry’s intention to return to school come September.

‘’ermione, come off it, ‘e’s jus’ ‘illed You Know Oo! I mean if ‘at doesn’ Exceed Expec’ations, wha’ ‘oes?’ Ron said between mouthfuls of steak and kidney pie.

‘Ron, for heaven’s sake, eat with your mouth closed, please,’ said Hermione as Ron rolled his eyes at Harry.

‘Well I’ve had a word with McGonagall, she says Kingsley’s allowing people who fought in the Battle to sign up for Auror training. Anything I don’t know I’ll self study, and as for Potions, well the Prince’s copy’s been destroyed so okay I’m a bit up a creek without a paddle there, but I’m sure I can find a tutor,’ said Harry, refilling everyone’s pumpkin juice.

‘Hmm, I suppose as long as you really commit to self study that should be okay,’ Hermione said slowly, as though the concept that anyone could learn something and not receive a certificate at the end was dubious at best.

‘So you going to live in Grimmauld Place then?’ asked Ron as he lay back in his chair, satisfied at his part in demolishing half the food on their table.

‘I’ve got nowhere else, I think the house in Godric’s Hollow technically belongs to me, but it’s mostly a monument now and I don’t really want to move to such a small village, not to mention the memories. Professor Flitwick said he’d be free this afternoon to give me a hand with Grimmauld Place’s defences, so if we can protect it again, I might as well.’

‘Ooh, I wonder what kind of enchantments he’s going to cast, I bet they’ll be incredibly powerful, maybe even some of the more secret stuff they use here,’ Hermione wondered aloud as she rummaged in her beaded bag for books on property charms.

*

‘There you go, Harry! We have now strengthened the Unplottability of this house, removed the Fidelius Charm and added a few helpful little protections against unwanted house guests. Alastor’s dust ghost, as interesting a piece of magic as it was, I have removed my dear boy, wouldn’t do to be breathing in all that dust,’ Professor Flitwick dusted off his hat as he and Harry, who had been assisting him, walked into the kitchen. Kreacher appeared and took the Professor’s hat and cloak and bade him to sit.

‘Would Master and the Professor care for something to drink or eat?’ Kreacher asked, bowing Harry into the room.

‘What do you say, Professor, care for anything? Kreacher’s an excellent cook,’ Harry said, stoking the fire. The chill London weather obstinately refused to accept the approach of summer, and spring gales were raging outside. 

‘Oh I won’t say no to a glass of Butterbeer or wine,’ squeaked Flitwick happily as he relaxed into an armchair by the fire. ‘I can’t stay long, Harry, still so much to do back at Hogwarts - ah, thank you,’ Kreacher had brought a tray laden with choices of ice cold Butterbeer bottles and varieties of elf-made wine. When Flitwick had a glass of wine and Harry a bottle of Butterbeer, they toasted each other’s health.

‘But tell me Harry, will we be seeing you at Hogwarts next year?’

‘I’ve heard that Kingsley’s letting students who fought at Hogwarts undertake Auror training, I thought I might give that a shot. I mean, of course I don’t have any N.E.W.T.s, and I’m still rusty in a few areas, but I quite like the idea - what do you think?’

‘Well, as a Hogwarts Professor I am inclined to say that it would be best to have some qualifications under your belt, just in case you need to make a career change say, but then again you are who you are, so something tells me you won’t have too many problems. It is true the Minister is allowing you students who fought to take up the training, but I am under the impression that there will still be some competency tests in order to get onto the course. How do you feel you’ll cope?’

‘For the most part, my defence I’m okay with,’ said Harry slowly.

‘But of course, I doubt there would be many who would challenge you now!’ Flitwick laughed, a light and warm laugh.

‘I’m nowhere near as good as you are Professor,’ Harry raised his bottle in recognition of Flitwick’s status as a Master Duellist.

‘Oh a lot of it comes with age and practice, you’ve handled yourself very admirably Harry, not least to say that the entire Wizarding world owes you a great debt,’ Flitwick raised his glass in return of the salute.

‘See that’s the thing Professor, what we’ve done, bringing down Voldemort, it was a team effort - I certainly couldn’t have done it single handedly, and I’m not sure that qualifies me to think I can fight other Dark wizards,’ Harry said, turning to look into the fire.

‘So perhaps returning to Hogwarts to complete your studies might be the better course?’

‘It’s tempting in a sense, but I feel like I need a different approach to my education now. I think I’ve outgrown curriculums… What do you think about me hiring tutors and studying like that?’

‘There’s a lot to be said for it. Before the standardisation of magical education, the Master-Apprentice paradigm was the only real way to teach new wizards. Indeed, in may parts of the world, and in some parts of Britain also, parents choose to send their pupils to Masters. However, you may find it difficult to find a Master.’

‘How come?’

‘The remaining ones in Britain either have Apprentices, or else only take their students young, in order to control their whole magical education.’

At this Harry was disappointed, it seemed he may have to either return to Hogwarts after all or go into Auror training fully aware of his own inadequacies. Seeing this, Flitwick spoke up.

‘Well, let’s see now. I often find the best way to tackle an issue is to break it down into its composite parts. You want to become an Auror,’ Harry nodded. ‘You need to demonstrate proficiency in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions. Your proficiency in Defence, at least to a N.E.W.T. standard, cannot be questioned. Your Charmwork was very promising in your sixth year, so I would suggest you practice daily on your own. I hear the same ought to apply to your Transfiguration, though perhaps a little more practice will be needed there than you think necessary - it is a mightily difficult subject after all. That leaves your Potions. Now, I understand from Professor Slughorn that you are an accomplished Potioneer, though Professor Snape always seemed to suggest the opposite was true?’

‘Let’s just say that my Potions education hasn’t been the most consistent. It’s probably my weakest subject, though I did enjoy it under Professor Slughorn.’

‘So, we have now identified Potions as your weakest point. I would suggest you find a tutor for the subject, it doesn’t have to be a Master, but someone well accomplished would be good. Incidentally, did you know your family has a history of accomplished Potioneers?’

‘Do you mean my mum?’

‘Oh she was certainly good, but you mustn’t ignore your Potter family history,’ said Flitwick, smiling at Harry. ‘Genealogy is something of a hobby of mine, not for any ridiculous Pure Blood notions, but since I spent so long researching my own it got me into the habit. Also, as a Ravenclaw, I suppose you could say I am naturally curious,’ Flitwick laughed at Harry’s surprised reaction.

‘I actually know very little about my family history, where would I find out?’ Harry said.

‘Oh there are plenty of books and records on the topic, both at the Ministry and at Hogwarts, you’re welcome to come browse them at any time of course, but did you know, your grandfather invented Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion, and your forefathers were responsible for the Skele-Gro and Pepperup Potions?’

‘I had no idea!’ said Harry, rueful of how little he knew about his own family and ancestors. ‘I think I’ll be taking you up on that offer of browsing the family trees one day.’

‘Oh do, it’s an amusing way to while away some time, though of course, our environments make us who we are. Now, back to your Potions problem. I say the solution is simple. If you are serious about studying the subject further, then write to the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, explain your predicament, and ask them if they can recommend a tutor. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to help.’

‘Brilliant, thanks Professor!’ said Harry, making a mental note of the society’s name.

‘Not at all, Harry. Now please forgive me, I must be going, still so much to do. Thank you for the wine!’

‘No problem, thank you for helping with the house! You’re more than welcome any time you want to come back.’

‘Thank you Harry, very kind. Sorry we couldn’t shift Mrs Black’s portrait, I shall have a think over the summer and see if I can come up with a solution. May I use your fireplace?’

‘Of course!’

With the final courtesies and good byes out of the way, Professor Flitwick shot off in a flash of green flames towards the Three Broomsticks, leaving Harry to ponder his future. Write to the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers… Well, that would be easy enough, assuming he had an owl. With a pang of regret, he thought of Hedwig, and though it pained him, he knew it was time to get a new Owl. It was after 4 o’clock, and with nothing better to do, Harry set out for Diagon Alley.

_Chapter 5_

Apparating carefully behind the Leaky Cauldron so as not to have to face the patrons’ stares inside, Harry took out his holly and phoenix feather wand and tapped the brick that allowed him entrance to Diagon Alley.

The shopping parade still showed the neglect of the last two years, but small signs of rejuvenation were starting to appear. Ollivander’s was boarded up instead of left as a hollowed out husk with a sign reading ‘Under Refurbishment - Apologies for Any Inconvenience Caused’ and a smaller sign informing people that they could still order wands by mail. The landless beggars and illicit stalls had disappeared, as had all the posters marking Harry as Undesirable Number One. A folded copy of _The Daily Prophet_ lying in a puddle showed Kingsley in the midst of a crowd, shaking hands and listening to what appeared to be members of the public.

Shops were still open, though there were few shoppers about. It seemed that a great weight had been lifted from this centre of commerce, and it was only starting to breath once more. Harry caught sight of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes further down the street and was glad to see that it still appeared open, no doubt reopened in the last few days and left in the care of the twins’ staff. 

Making his way to Eeylop’s Owl Emporium, Harry passed Magical Menagerie and decided to take a look inside. Thankfully cramped full of cages piled high, the witch at the counter, who looked up when he entered, didn’t appear to have recognised him. 

‘Need a hand?’ she called in a bored manner.

‘Just browsing, thanks,’ Harry replied, his eyes drawn away from the leap-frogging, pirouetting mice to the cats. A pair of yellow eyes glanced out from the shadows, and as he bent down to investigate, the thin face of a small, black cat emerged to gaze at him, its eyes wide in curiosity. Remembering the torn photo he had found in Sirius’ bedroom that had depicted him as a baby zooming around with his father’s legs following, and the letter his mother had written to Sirius mentioning the cat they had owned, Harry felt a connection to the black cat before him. He proffered his finger, and slowly the cat (which he saw now was barely older than a kitten) leaned forward to sniff it, and rubbed the side of its face against his hand.

‘Looks like she likes you,’ said the shop attendant, glancing up from a magazine she had been reading on the counter. 

‘What’s her name?’ asked Harry, unable to draw his eyes from the black cat that had now shut its eyes and was enjoying being stroked behind the ears.

‘Celene, she’s 7 months old and we think she’s a quarter Kneazle, she’s very defensive. Doesn’t seem to like most people, but maybe you’re the one for her.’

Harry continued petting her, partly wondering if it would be a good idea to get a cat when he was planning to have an Owl around, but then remembered that Crookshanks had never really bothered Hedwig. A small part of him felt it might be fitting, if only to recapture some small segment of the past he had lost at Godric’s Hollow. 

’15 Galleons if you’re interested,’ said the attendant when Harry didn’t respond, turning back to her magazine. A moment passed.

‘I’ll take her,’ Harry said, making up his mind. He bought Celene and a full set of all the scratching posts, beds, accessories, wet food and treats he would need to get started. ‘Is she good with owls and house-elves?’

‘Sure, just make sure she gets plenty of exercise,’ said the attendant bagging up his purchases and placing Celene in a spacious carrier which allowed her head to poke out and survey the world hanging off of Harry’s shoulder. Harry paid quickly, and by the confused look on the attendant’s face it was just in time as, walking out of the door, he heard her call, ‘Hey wait a minute! You’re-.’ But the accuracy of her deductions would go untested, as Harry was already hurrying over to Eeylop’s Owl Emporium. 

After a good fifteen minutes of browsing in the dark Emporium, he settled for a Panamanian striped owl named Mariposa (the shopkeeper went to great lengths to impress upon him that Mariposa was fluent in both English, Spanish and Gobbldegook) and set out to get a few supplies from Scribbulus and the Apothecary. He was now fully committed to the Potions tuition plan, and decided he might as well prepare fully. 

It was on his way to Potage’s Cauldron Shop (as he had left his cauldron at Privet Drive and had no desire to return there, nor any idea that it might still be there, he decided a fresh start was better all round) that he passed Obscurus Books and saw the strangest thing. In the window of the shop which appeared to have been deserted for the past few months he saw, carved into the grime, what appeared to be a lightning bolt striking a skull. It had been easy enough to miss when he had passed the shop earlier, as it fit in with the general filth of the abandoned shop, but all the same, now he looked at it a bad feeling started to gnaw at his insides.

He thought he knew what it must be connected to, but hoping that it would prove to be a one off thing, he cast it from his mind and made for his last stop.

*

Later that night, as Celene danced about Hermione’s legs, Harry filled her and Ron in with the day’s events. 

‘I’ve heard a fair bit about the Masters, they’re really cool but incredibly difficult to find - really hermit like, you know?’ said Ron as he chucked owl treats to Mariposa and Pigwidgeon, the later hooting excitedly around the striped owl’s head. Mariposa had given up trying to follow Pigwidgeon’s flight, giving the little bird up as a bad cause and continued to eye Crookshanks who had nestled into the armchair by the fire.

‘They do sound fascinating, I’d love to meet one. Still, I suppose a Potioneer with the Society will be a perfectly good tutor if you’re not returning to Hogwarts and can’t get a Master,’ Hermione said as she flicked through a travel brochure.

‘What’s that?’ Harry asked, peering at the eye-watering sums for flights across the globe.

‘Oh, I need to go find my parents now that the danger’s passed, and I’ve been thinking of flying there. It’s really much cheaper to buy return tickets than to travel there magically and then have to buy one-way tickets back to London when I have them,’ said Hermione in a small voice.

‘Ah right, do you need a hand with any of that?’

‘No it’s fine, it’s something I want to do myself,’ answered Hermione.

‘You know I’ll come with you,’ said Ron.

‘Thanks,’ smiled Hermione, ‘but I’m fine, I won’t be gone long, and I don’t think you’ll survive a twenty-three hour flight across the world.’

Ron gulped at that, and muttered about the insanity of sitting in a metal coffin and trusting your safety to Muggle tinkerers who couldn’t levitate a paper aeroplane much less several tonnes of steel.

‘How’s Ginny doing?’ asked Harry, glancing up at Ron from his letter.

‘Yeah she’s fine, really good actually, we got back to the Burrow to find it mostly in ruins after the family had to flee, she’s been doing most of the heavy lifting with George, Bill and Fleur. Mum’s still not over Fred, I don’t think any of us are but you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, right?’ said Ron, taking a swig from his Butterbeer.

‘That’s right,’ said Harry quietly, stroking Celene who had given up on Hermione’s dangling feet and had jumped up into his lap. ‘I’m going to go see Teddy tomorrow at Mrs Tonks’, try to figure out how I can get involved with his life and upbringing.’

‘Poor kid,’ said Ron, ‘let me know how I can help, mate.’

‘Me too,’ said Hermione, looking up from her travel price lists.

‘Thanks. I want to make sure that kid wants for nothing,’ said Harry. ‘Jheeze, that reminds me, I’ve probably got to find out what happened to the Dursley’s and speak with them.’

‘Times like that I bet you’ll wish you had kept the Elder Wand,’ Ron laughed.

_Chapter 6_

Andromeda Tonks welcomed Harry into her home with good enough grace, though from her expression Harry could see she was tired. She had lost more than most in the last few weeks, her husband, her daughter, and her son-in-law. But when Harry saw how she doted upon Teddy, he knew she was as far removed from the older sister she looked so much alike as could be possible. He had brought with him as many provisions as he thought would be needed to look after a baby, as well as a range of toys both Muggle and magical. He had no idea what you gave a child or their guardian, so had erred on the side of caution and arrive looking like an over-eager door-to-door salesman.

‘Sorry,’ said Harry after he had dumped the small heap in the corner of the room, ‘I had no idea what to get.’ 

‘No problem,’ said Mrs Tonks, offering him a cup of tea. ‘Would you like to hold him?’

‘Err,’ began Harry, but Andromeda brought Teddy to him and showed him the proper way to support a baby. ‘Wow, they really are small.’ As he looked down at Teddy, the baby reached out and pinched Harry’s nose, giggling, and his hair changed colour to electric blue. ‘He’s definitely got his mother’s skill,’ said Harry, grinning.

His smile faded as he saw the sadness upon Andromeda’s face. ‘I’m really sorry-‘ he began before Andromeda shushed him.

‘She was an Auror, Harry, and she took on a good fight. When you have children of your own, you’ll understand. No matter how old they grow you’ll keep on looking at them just like Teddy is now, small and fragile in your arms, but without you ever realising it, they’ll have grown up and become their own person. If you blink, you’ll miss it.

He looked at her for a long time.

‘You’ve lost more than most in this fight. If there’s anything, anything at all I can do for you, please say and I’ll do everything in my power. I’m not just talking about raising Teddy, but of course I want to be as present as possible, I know what it’s like not to have parents,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ Andromeda refilled his tea from the pot. ‘There is one thing, actually, though I’ll understand if you can’t or don’t want to,’ she said, looking away from him.

‘Anything,’ he replied.

She stirred her cup for a long while before finally looking up to meet his gaze. ‘It’s about my little sister, Narcissa. She is not a bad person. She is a wife, and a mother, and all she has ever done, even though I may not have agreed with it, was look after her family. Please, see to it that her efforts were not for naught. It would destroy her.’

Harry considered this for a moment. The Malfoy’s. He had been thinking about the Malfoy’s a lot recently. He had seen, through Voldemort’s eyes, the uses to which Draco had been put, the fear in his eyes. From the top of the Astronomy Tower when Draco disarmed Dumbledore, to the Forest, when Narcissa Malfoy had betrayed Voldemort, to their small family, sat in the Great Hall after the Battle, uncertain of their place in the world. He may not be able to conjure any liking for the Malfoy’s, not least because of Lucius’ attitude and actions, but he did feel pity for them.

‘I’ll do what I can, I promise,’ Harry said finally, returning Andromeda’s gaze.

‘Thank you,’ she said in a small voice.

_ Chapter 7 _

Harry returned to Grimmauld Place that night to find Mariposa waiting patiently for him on the bannister, a letter tied to her leg. Offering her his arm, she jumped onto him, and he made his was down to the kitchens to read the response from the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. It had arrived much sooner than he had anticipated. 

_Mr Harry James Potter_   
_The Ancient & Most Noble House of Black_   
_London_

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_Thank you for your letter, receipt of which we hereby acknowledge._

_We are most honoured to hear that you wish to enhance your expertise in the ancient art of Potioneering. We often feel that whilst Hogwarts offers a solid enough foundation in the craft, it is just that - a foundation. True Potion making requires a deeper understanding and appreciation for the most subtle forms of magic, stretching the known laws of matter and the universe to the skilled Potioneers will._

_We are glad to hear that you understand and appreciate the subtle nature of our art, and we will be more than happy to assist you in finding a suitable tutor. Might we suggest that you drop by our headquarters tomorrow at 11am so that we might introduce you to a suitable tutor. We have many skilled Potioneers as valued members, and we are sure we can find the perfect match._

_Eternally yours,_

  
_Madame Altheda Starkey_   
_Secretary General of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers_

Harry was sure that he had not expressed anything near the understanding and appreciation which Madame Starkey had appeared to read in his letter asking if they knew of someone who might help him improve his Potion making and tutor him a little, but he suspected either his name may have brought on a sudden urge to show off, or else a society that called itself the ‘Most Extraordinary Society’ would be prone to a little flamboyance. Either way, his plans seemed to be in motion, and there was little he needed to worry about.

In an effort to not appear a total moron the next day, Harry practiced a rudimentary Potion and read through some of the textbooks he had asked Hermione to lend him, trying to recall the fundamentals before tomorrow.

*

At five minutes to eleven the next morning, Harry found himself on a quiet side street a stone’s throw from Russell Square and London’s University district. A battered old pub stood at the corner of the street, and the white facaded buildings all had heavy curtains and black wrought iron railings that led to basement entrances. In front of number thirteen Llull Street, Harry looked to either side, saw no one, opened the gate, and descended down the worn iron steps to a shabby looking basement door. Taking out his wand, he knocked once, and suddenly the cramped basement entrance transformed into a stone flagged entrance with a pair of magnificently old wooden doors. The doors creaked open slowly, and he was greeted first by the heady fumes of a thousand potions as he stepped into a cavernous reception area that looked like it belonged in the Middle Ages. 

A pale, beautiful witch sat at the table at the far end of the entrance hall, her raven black hair cut into a block fringe and falling down her back, her robes darkest night. Walking up to her, Harry cleared his throat, and she looked up from her papers. 

‘Erm, I’m here to see Madame Starkey, I have an appointment with her at eleven,’ Harry said, his voice rising into a tentative question at the end as the witch looked up to him, making him feel awfully young and silly standing there. 

‘You must be Mr Potter,’ she breathed in a silky, deep voice. ‘Please, have a seat. Madame Starkey will be ready for you in a few moments. Can I get you anything?’

‘Err,’ _idiot_ , he thought, _is that all you can say? ‘Err’??_ , ‘I’m good, thanks’. He sat down on one of the wooden benches that lined the side of the hall, wondering just what on Earth was getting into him and why he was suddenly feeling so hot, when he caught a note of broomstick handles and flowers on the air. One of the potions being brewed must have been Amortentia. _Just my luck_ , he thought as he shook his head and gazed anywhere but at the reception witch. 

The seconds crawled by as he waited, trying to keep his mind on Potions and the brief, rushed revision he had done last night. Just when he was beginning to think he’d be better off leaving and claiming an urgent need to be anywhere else, the doors to the right of the reception desk swung open and in walked an elderly, elegant witch in deep purple robes. She smiled as she found Harry sat to the side of the hall.

‘Mr Potter! How delighted to finally meet you!’ Madame Altheda Starkey swooped down upon him, her robes billowing behind her. ‘Horace speaks most highly of you, yet every time I suggested we meet he cited scheduling conflicts, the naughty old man, hogging you all to himself,’ she proffered a hand and Harry took it, inclining his head in greeting.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Madame Starkey,’ he said.

‘Come, my dear, let us go to my office and we can discuss matters properly,’ she led the way through the way she had come, into a long corridor reminiscent of the dungeons at Hogwarts where he had so often been bullied by Snape. Remembering that Snape had been alright in the end, even if he had strove to make Harry’s life a living hell whilst he held power over him, Harry noticed the barred windows set in each door they passed were leaking various vapours and fumes. He caught a few scents he recognised, yet most he didn’t.

Stepping into Madame Starkey’s dungeon office, complete with workstation, ingredients cabinet, bubbling cauldron, desk and chairs, Harry was struck with two things. The first, was a general feeling of cosiness which had somehow been achieved in a dungeon. The second, far more disconcertingly, was the presence of a slim, hooded stranger in one of the seats before Madame Starkey’s desk, in expensive robes of darkest green.

‘Now, Harry, may I call you Harry?’ Harry nodded, his eyes upon the stranger as he stood in the doorway. ‘Allow me to introduce you to one of our most foremost Potioneers, Mrs Narcissa Malfoy.’

Narcissa lowered her hood and turned to look at Harry, her pale blonde hair swaying slightly behind her. He was surprised to see her usually haughty look had vanished, and instead he was met with shock. He moved to the only spare chair in front of Madame Starkey’s desk which she bade him to take as she took her own, and he said, ‘We have met. Good morning, Mrs Malfoy,’ inclining his head to her before sitting.

‘Potter,’ she nodded at him cautiously after a pause.

‘Oh well this is most splendid then, yes I think the two of you ought to work quite well together. Harry, Narcissa is a fantastically adept Potioneer. Though she doesn’t work commercially, she graduated top of her class and has since written a collection of truly intriguing and diverse treaties in the field, and has been peer reviewed in _The Practical Potioneer_. I told her we had a prospective student, and she naturally jumped at the chance!’ The look on Narcissa Malfoy’s face at this suggested to Harry that jumped wouldn’t have been the best term for her reaction, nor had she apparently been told who her new charge would be. ‘Narcissa, Harry here wishes to qualify as an Auror, and would like to take on private tuition to shore up his Potion crafting, and I’m sure delve deeper into the topic than a cursory, standardised N.E.W.T. level education could possibly provide for. Well, that about sums it up! Any questions?’ Madame Starkey smiled at the both of them.

Narcissa betrayed a look of disdain before setting her face neutrally again at the suggestion that Harry harboured Auror ambitions. His stomach churned. Why did the Potions field seem to be dominated by nothing but Slytherins?

Casting his thoughts back to his recent contemplation of the Malfoy clique, Harry decided, surprising himself in the process, that perhaps the olive branch approach would be best here.

‘Mrs Malfoy, thank you for offering to teach me. If you still would like to, I would be honoured to learn from you.’ Turning to Madame Starkey, he said, ‘where will we be practicing if this goes ahead?’

‘Oh we can provide a suitable dungeon here for a nominal fee, so long as you bring your own cauldron and ingredients, and make sure to clean up after yourselves,’ Madame Starkey said, still smiling benignly at how well all of this appeared to be going. ‘So, Narcissa, do you accept?’

Narcissa Malfoy looked very much as though she had just been forced to swallow a number of unfortunate Every Flavour Beans, but maintaining her neutral expression, she said, ‘Of course,’ in a low voice.

‘Splendid! Then I’ll leave it to the two of you to arrange schedules, you can book a dungeon with Carla at reception,’ Madame Starkey beamed at them as she rose to usher them out, ‘under your tutelage, Narcissa, Harry may make a fine member of the Society yet,’ and with that, Harry and his school rival’s mother were walking back down the the corridor to the reception. Harry felt very surreal, as though the last few minutes hadn’t even happened. Perhaps this was a dream, an odd, uncomfortable dream in which he would reach the door at the end of the corridor and wake up (he was used to dreaming corridors, though unnerved by them all the same).

As they reached the door and Harry placed his hand upon the solid wood he was forced, at last, to accept that this was really happening. He opened the door for Narcissa Malfoy, and followed her out into the cavernous reception hall.

‘Mrs Malfoy, you didn’t say-‘

‘Say what?’ she asked, a little quickly and brusquely.

‘Erm, you didn’t say if there was a fee… for the tuition,’ Harry finished, stopping by the reception desk.

She looked at him, her gaze indecipherable. ‘No fee,’ she said. ‘Just do as you’re told, and we won’t have any problems.’ He met her gaze, and a thousand questions sprung upon him, but now did not seem to be the time to ask them.

They booked their dungeon, two nights a week indefinitely to begin the coming Thursday, and went their separate ways without another word.


	3. Part 3 - Distant Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The signs are there, but can Harry read them yet?

**Part 3 - Distant Thunder**

_Chapter 8_

Lightning flashed over Pendle Hill, casting the hanging trees in sharp relief. Sheets of unrelenting rain dashed down upon the ruins of the old witch’s hut that lay at the foot of the hill. The locals generally avoided the place, though why they could not tell. Lancashire historians often said it was a bloody reminder of the York Assizes and the unfortunate executions of innocent women accused of witchcraft, which of course was now known to be nonsense, and marked a shameful blight on the county’s history. For the local shepherds, the wails and cries that carried across the moors to the south in recent weeks reinforced the old legends and superstitions. 

Gale force winds lashed the side of the old hut with the full force of the storm, and all noise that escaped the site was quickly lost to the elements. Ruinous hut though it may be to Muggles, those touched by magic would have seen at its centre stone steps leading down into caverns below, carved into the the belly of old Pendle Hill. It was from here this night that the moans and cries echoed and emanated.

Candles floated untethered in the corners of the cavern, and a set of blazing braziers marked the altar set above the group gathered within. The air was thick with sweat, and the musky perfume of a dozen active bodies. Arranged in a circle, the couples heaved and grinded against each other, their moans of ecstasy reverberating around the stone walls and high ceiling. Everywhere arms and legs were splayed, spread-eagle, taught or rag-dolled against the cushions laid down for comfort as others still rode, pumped, or bobbed their heads. It was an orgy in the truest sense of the word, and in the middle of the pulsating, gyrating circle, lay a tall, pale women with thick, shining dark hair, long eyelashes and heavily hooded eyes.

Her black robes lay open, the only one wearing any, revealing her tight body, firm breasts, porcelain skin, and glistening slit. Her wand, won through murder, lay between her breasts, quivering and vibrating rhythmically as the ritual took hold. Her eyes were shut, and her strong jaw firmly set in a grimace of concentration. Her cheeks flushed and she let out a grunt of pleasure, her toes curling. They were close, she knew it. Clawing at the stone flags, her arms spread wide beside her, she could feel the pressure building in her abdomen. Her pussy convulsed in anticipation, the familiar pressure of approaching orgasm strong, pushing against her insides, sending sparks shooting throughout her body.

One by one gasps, cries and moans could be heard from the couples surrounding her. Each woman took the seed of each man, and when the last man fell, spent, onto the strewn cushions, each of the six women crawled over to Bellatrix and kneeled before her, masturbating intently, their hands flying across their clits, some grasping at their breasts, two women kissing and groping each other as they pushed themselves to orgasm. It hit a dark, olive-skinned woman first. She shuddered and gasped a low, earthy moan as she came, her partner’s cum and her own mixed and gushed out onto Bellatrix’s body. Each woman reached their own orgasm, gasping, moaning, shuddering, and letting their partner’s cum and their own spill out onto Bellatrix. The two kissing, groping women released their cum and juices onto Bellatrix’s face, coating her cheeks, shut eyes, nose and lips. 

The feeling of approaching orgasm rose in crescendo within Bellatrix’s abdomen, the wand nestled between her firm breasts shook violently as the last drop of cum hit her and - nothing.

The wand stilled. The pressure inside her eased, replaced with a deep longing. She gasped, and let out a low scream of frustration, her hands balling into fists, striking the stone beneath her. The women around her backed away in fear.

Bellatrix rose, grasping the immobile wand as it slipped down her, sliding in cum and pussy juice. Her wild eyes cast about the cavern, looking for anything that might be out of place, anything that might have betrayed her this time.

‘M-My Lady,’ began one man, ‘did it-‘

‘NO, IT DID NOT!’ Bellatrix screamed, her words descending into an animalistic snarl. ‘ _SCOURGIFY_ ’ she yelled, pointing her wand at herself, and the remnants of the ritual vanished off of her.

‘But then-‘ began another man, who quietened when she turned her furious gaze upon him.

‘But then what?’ she spat at him, fury and loathing dripping from her tongue with every word.

‘I-I just mean to say, My Lady, perhaps it can’t be done? Maybe- Maybe he’s gone for-for-‘ but just who or what might have been gone and for what reason or how was lost upon the man’s tongue as a flash of green light from Bellatrix’s wand saw him hit the floor.

Gathering her robes about her, Bellatrix, the thirteenth member of the group meeting beneath Pendle Hill, swept out of the cavern, and those gathered in the chamber let out a sigh of relief at her passing, relief and worry of what they might be asked to do next.

Bellatrix knew she was engaging in difficult, mostly forgotten magic. The literature on sex rituals was so scant, and so much of what remained simply the twisted blabbering of sad little perverts, that she herself had trouble believing that it might work. But the evidence was, insofar as she saw it, incontrovertible. Her wand behaved just as she had intended it to, just as the text said it should. Each time she tried the ritual, she felt herself build up towards the peak of orgasm, and each time she couldn’t cross it to the other side. She had followed the text as closely as she, or indeed anyone, could. She knew she had no trouble achieving orgasm, was perfectly able to do so herself and had managed it the last time she had been with a partner, so why wasn’t it working now, why, when surrounded by such eroticism and so incredibly turned on, couldn’t she cross the finish line?

Stymied, frustrated and disheartened, she refused to accept the alternative. He had come back once before, and she had waited for him, he could do so again. She cast aside what she had seen with her own eyes, what she had heard, the mundane finality of it all - that was for lesser people to believe, not her, his most faithful servant, the only person who truly understood him.

No, she would need to delve deeper. The ritual must have been at fault. No matter, she had barely scratched the surface of the secrets simply waiting to be uncovered.

_Chapter 9_

‘That was merely adequate.’

Harry looked over at his notes again, and the potion bubbling away in the cauldron before him. He was sure it was perfect this time.

‘What do you mean, merely adequate?’ He asked, frustrated when he could find no difference.

‘I mean to say, it will do the job, but weakly. There is brewing a potion, and then there is crafting the true essence of that which you intend to create.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Harry, frowning at Narcissa.

She gave him a weighted look. ‘You will.’ She walked over to his cauldron and glanced at his notes. ‘You perform like a student.’

‘Isn’t that how I’m supposed to perform?’ Harry asked, his annoyance increasing.

‘Yes… and no. Broadly speaking, there are two types of potion making. There is the first, which is taught at Hogwarts, and which most people do not choose to ever venture beyond. That style is learnt by rote, potions copied from the neat pages of a textbook. Those people are not Potioneers, they care nothing for the subtlety of the art. Let me put it in more simple terms. When making a meal, you can copy a recipe from a book line by line, sticking only to the instructions on the page and nothing more, and you would have produced an edible meal. But to produce food that evokes memory, food that tantalises the senses, you must go beyond the recipe. Eventually, you get to the point where you are so familiar with your ingredients, you do not bother with the recipe. You may even come to alter it from time to time, but still producing the end result. You will have owned that particular dish, made it your own. The same is true for Potion making. It is possible to learn this, but not from a book, and not from a standard Hogwarts curriculum.’

Harry stared at her. She spoke with a softness he had rarely heard from her in the weeks they had been working together. His frustration ebbed - what she said made sense, he supposed.

‘You’re right, I’ll do better,’ said Harry.

‘You do it for yourself, Potter, not for me. It may well be possible for you to become an Auror with your current level of commitment, but ask yourself this, will that be enough for you? _Scourgify_. Thursday we will be making an antidote to Veritaserum… and testing it. See you then.’

Harry thought he saw the corners of her mouth twitch as she said that, and then she was gone. He packed up and headed into the cool June London night. The radio had said weather in the North was being erratic, with major storms, but in London it had been a really pleasant day. He was starting to see the plus side of having moved back South, though the congestion, pollution, and the crowds still made him pine for open forests, mountains and lakes from time to time. When he caught himself yearning to buy a place in Hogsmeade, he remembered how provincial life there was. _Well_ , he thought, _it might make for a nice retirement village - if I live long enough_.

As a treat, he had spent the last weekend at The Burrow with Ginny and the Weasley’s. It had been idyllic, Bill and Fleur had come from Shell Cottage over, and the place reminded him of those stolen moments of joy on summer holidays, with the added pleasure of having escaped the Dursley’s. Crap, he thought, as he remembered what was scheduled for tomorrow. In a fit of delirium, he had, upon seeing the Dursley’s for the first time this year (about a week after what was now being called the Battle of Hogwarts, now he thought about it), he had made the ridiculous gesture of inviting them to visit him. He had set a date that seemed comfortably far away at the time, but now that he was less than twenty-four hours away from seeing them, realised it wasn’t far enough. He had only seen them briefly when they had arrived with Dedalus and Hestia looking ruffled and unkempt. 

‘WHY THE BLOODY HELL WOULD I WANT TO STEP FOOT IN ANOTHER FREAK’S-’ his Uncle had begun, until Dudley had said he’d be happy to, which promptly shut Vernon up. Petunia had said nothing as they bundled into a car and drove flat out to Surrey. 

Having decided to walk home in the good weather, Harry was crossing the Euston Road opposite King’s Cross to head up Pentonville Road towards Islington, when he stopped in his tracks. Etched into a traffic lamp post in the middle of the road, amidst graffiti denouncing the reader by means of incredibly derogatory terms, adverts for warehouse raves with little known DJs and calls for the worker’s of the world to unite in a grand socialist struggle, was a lightning bolt striking the top of a skull. He could not believe his eyes. 

What was the same symbol now doing on both Diagon Alley and the middle of Muggle London? True, he was awfully close the Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, but it was months before the Express would be leaving again, and he had a feeling this mark was recently done. Glancing around him and suddenly feeling overly exposed, Harry kept his hand on his wand as he hurried back to Grimmauld Place. He had to talk to someone about this, having forgotten to mention it to Ron and Hermione, and now that Hermione was in Australia tracking down her parents, that left only Ron. Tempted as he was to go straight to The Burrow to talk to his best friend, he realised just how much of an over-reaction that might be, so he decided upon a letter. Mariposa was out hunting, so he wrote the letter by the fire in the kitchen, Celene curled on his lap. The owl returned later that night when he was in the drawing room practicing his Charmwork, and he hurried to send her off to Devon.

_ Chapter 10 _

The clock ticked by excruciatingly slowly Sunday morning. Harry had spent that morning working hard with Kreacher cleaning every spot of number 12 Grimmauld Place until from the kitchen to Buckbeak’s old bedroom in the attic the place shone with new life. The serpentine taps in the bathroom reflected Harry’s face as he washed his hands, examining his unruly hair in the mirror. With a glance at Fabian Prewett’s old watch, he decided he didn’t have the time or the energy to worry about that, a small voice in his head wondering why he even cared, and he marched down to the kitchen to welcome his first visitors. 

With pops and minimal amounts of ash issuing forth from the recently cleaned fireplace, first Ron, then George, Bill, Fleur, Ginny, Percy, Arthur and Molly Weasley all spewed forth from into the kitchen. Kreacher stopped what he was doing at the countertop and turned to look at the ash that, though little, covered his spotless floor. Dropping the knife he had been holding unceremoniously onto the chopping board, he retrieved a bucket and mop and immediately set to work returning the floor to its spotless brilliance.

Harry took turns hugging all of the Weasley family. Here in this room (minus Hermione who was still in Australia), stood his surrogate family. He could think of no one better to back him up when facing his actual family. Serving everyone drinks and listening to anecdotes about life at the Ministry from Percy, Harry had for a brief moment forgotten to keep an eye on the time - a mistake he soon rued making when the doorbell rang and Mrs Black’s screams echoed throughout the entrance hall. Running upstairs, he swung his wand at Mrs Black’s portrait, interrupting her screams of blood traitor this and mudblood that with a flash of red light. Skidding to a halt in front of the door, he caught himself, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Standing there as though he had just been caught flashing on Oxford Street, Vernon Dursley was looking around to see if anyone had seen him in such a shameful act, has head moving so fast he may have been watching a particularly lively volley at the Wimbledon Centre Court. 

‘It just appeared out of nowhere!’ said Dudley, his massive frame blocking his mother from view as he stared at the serpentine knocker and the door it was attached to.

‘It’s a good thing my telling you about it worked, I was worried it wouldn’t appear for you at all,’ whispered Harry, ushering them inside.

‘Why are you whispering, boy? Not squatting, are you?’ cried Uncle Vernon in his obnoxiously loud voice, setting off Mrs Black’s screaming again.

‘I was trying not to wake her up!’ yelled Harry, grimacing as he made to shut old Walburga Black up again. ‘We’ve tried everything to get rid of Mrs Black, but she’s rather stubborn. Come on, everyone’s in the kitchen,’ Harry led the way, smirking internally at the shock that registered on Aunt Petunia’s face. Dudley was also surprised, but he alone seemed fascinated of the lot of them. He was first to follow Harry down the stairs.

‘Now see here, boy, what do you mean scaring the life out of your Aunt like that, you ungrateful little-‘ Uncle Vernon began as they entered the kitchen, but upon noticing that the place was full of people, promptly shut up. 

‘Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley,’ began Harry, choosing to ignore his Uncle’s attempts to rile him up, ‘meet Ron, Ginny, George, Percy, Bill, Fleur, Mr Weasley, and Mrs Weasley - but of course, you’ve already met some of them before.’

The second’s silence that followed echoed with the memory of the destruction of the Dursley’s living room at Arthur Weasley’s hands, and upon spotting George, Dudley’s face turned a sickly yellow. George seemed to notice this, as he slowly took a sweet out of his pocket and played with the wrapper, his eyes glinting malevolently. Petunia had the look of a ferret that had found itself suddenly outnumbered by animal control.

Mr Weasley, sensing the stretching awkwardness, hurried forward and shook Vernon and Petunia by the hand, greeting them warmly. Slowly, the Weasley’s and the Dursley’s greeted each other, but it was not until Fleur, no doubt realising the need, turned up the charm on Vernon and Dudley, greeting them as only a part Veela could, that the ice showed signs of ever cracking. Aunt Petunia, noticing the change in her husband and son, took a very sour attitude to Fleur.

Barring Aunt Petunia’s scream of horror when she saw Kreacher handling food, the dinner went rather well. Harry gave his aunt, uncle and cousin a tour of the house, hurrying Vernon away from the Black family tapestry when he showed too keen an interest in it and the promise of Harry’s sole inheritance of the dynasty’s fortune, and Petunia’s inability to comment on any dirt was a promising sign. Of course, the decapitated house-elf heads did little to charm the Dursley’s, but Harry had to agree with them on that front. As such a deep immersion into a world they flatly denied existed threatened to get the better of them, Harry escorted the Dursley’s back to the kitchen for a glass of wine, firewhiskey or Butterbeer at their choice, and they seemed to actually relax for once.

Ron joined him when he went to get more wine from the cellar. They discussed Harry’s letter of the night before, but Ron’s attitude towards it was not to worry.

‘But what if it means something?’

‘Like what?’

‘I dunno, don’t you think it looks a little close to the Dark Mark?’ Harry had included a rough sketch of what he had seen in his letter.

‘But that was a snake right? And if it’s got something to do with you, maybe it’s pro-you?’

‘I don’t think so, there’s something dark about it…’ Harry trailed off, thinking hard.

‘Listen, mate, if you’re that worried about it, maybe go talk to someone in the Order, see if Kingsley can spare a moment,’ said Ron, worried at his friend’s concern.

‘No, I don’t want to trouble him, anyway he’ll be too busy to see me. Maybe you’re right, maybe it’s just nothing, or a coincidence, but if I see it again, I’ll know it’s definitely not a coincidence.’ With some form of resolution, albeit one he wasn’t happy with, Harry and Ron returned to the dinner party.

As Kreacher’s excellent cooking was demolished and the wine was drunk, small talk developed into longer, evolving conversations. The Dursley’s, at first so reluctant to engage in any form of Wizarding talk, at least found common ground on the topic of the approaching elections (the last Prime Minister faced a vote of no confidence after enough of his cabinet succumbed to the Imperius curse), and loosened up a little when Mrs Weasley’s stern look make Mr Weasley stop barraging them to explain the purpose of traffic cones.

Harry listened quietly whilst the Weasley’s told his family about his many exploits, his face reddening all the while. Celene had decided his arms would make a suitable resting place, and he stroked her in silence as tales of his years at Hogwarts and his deeds throughout the Second Wizarding War were recounted, his eyes on the fire in the hearth. The Dursley’s barely spoke throughout the telling, except for a few obnoxious comments on Vernon’s part. Silence fell after the Battle of Hogwarts was recounted, and Harry’s death re-told.

‘You died?’

Harry looked up to see Dudley looking at him, shock and wonder on his face. ‘But… how?’

‘It’s a little complicated to explain, Dudley.’

‘I want to know.’

‘So, it kinda started with my mum,’ at the mention of her sister, Petunia snapped to attention, and as Harry told the story, explaining the magic of love and sacrifice, what his mother had done for him, what he had done for his friends, and what Voldemort had done to his soul, all of which had combined to give Harry the chance to die for his mission in peace, with the unforeseen perk that he’d be able to choose to come back, Petunia’s demeanour, which had been frosty for almost the entire day, softened. ‘Wait here,’ Harry said to Dudley. He rushed up to Sirius’ old room which he had made his own, and was back within seconds. He passed Dudley the old photo album. ‘Here, Dudley, there’s your aunt, and that’s your uncle.’

Petunia’s eyes followed the images as Harry showed them to Dudley, Kreacher silently gliding by refilling drinks. When Harry next looked over to her, he saw a tear in the corner of her eye. Perhaps it was the quiet that had fallen in the room, the crackling of the flames in the hearth, or the Butterbeer, but something made Harry speak to his aunt.

‘I saw his memories, you know - Severus Snape, the boy from Spinner Lane.’ At that, Petunia snapped to him.

‘What?’ she whispered. 

‘Hermione, Ron and I found him dying after Voldemort had his snake kill him. He was moments from death, and he gave me his memories. I saw scenes from his childhood, scenes with you, my mum, and him.’

Petunia was silent for a long while. ‘What did you see?’

‘Not much, it was mostly from his point of view. It was beautiful to see how close you and my mum were, though,’ Harry said, recalling how his mother had defended her sister when Petunia was upset. A single tear escaped Petunia’s eye.

Dudley flicked through the photo album, lost in the moving pictures.

‘But, do you mean zis eez ze first time you ‘ave ‘eard any of zis?’ asked Fleur indignantly.

Vernon spluttered, ‘Well, err, that Diggle fellow would harp on about it sometimes, but you learned to tune him out really he was so annoying…’, his voice trailed out weakly at the looks on the Weasley’s faces.

‘It’s getting late,’ Mr Weasley said, getting to his feet, ‘the rest of you are welcome to stay, but I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

‘I’m coming too, father,’ said Percy pompously at the mention of responsibility.

‘I think we’d better all get going,’ said Mrs Weasley, moving to get their jackets, but Kreacher had already produced them and was handing each to its owner. ‘Oh, thank you Kreacher.’ Kreacher bowed and held open a box of Floo powder, standing to attention by the fireplace. One by one the Weasley’s left, though Ginny lingered behind, forcing George to practically push Ron ahead of him into the flames. Dudley gaped as they disappeared one by one.

‘See you soon, Harry,’ said Ginny, kissing him swiftly on the lips.

‘I’ll be round soon,’ said Harry, hugging her and leading her to the fireplace. Vernon ogled after her.

‘So, got yourself a bit of something, ey boy,’ said Vernon. Harry chose to ignore this.

‘You’re all welcome to spend the night if you would like, there’s plenty of space,’ offered Harry, more out of courtesy in his uncle’s respect.

As he had expected, they refused. Seeing them out, Harry had mixed feelings about how the night had gone. On the whole, he supposed, it had been positive. Dudley seemed to be in the process of changing for the better, and Petunia was slowly letting that iron guard she had forged in childhood down, if only a little. His uncle, however, registered no discernible change.

Getting ready for bed that night, Harry’s most recent Potions notes slipped out from in-between his broom catalogues (he had been debating the pros and cons of buying another Firebolt) as he was rifling for some bedtime reading. Glancing at them, he thought back to his last lesson with Narcissa. Though there was still distance between them, being alone together for so long so often certainly brought out a softer side to her than he had seen before. It helped that he did his best to be respectful and on top of things at all times. Perhaps she had been about to smile when the corners of her mouth lifted. Harry hoped so, at least.


	4. Part 4 - Arrival; or, Becoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry finally starts to learn, and secrets are revealed

**Part 4 - Arrival; or, Becoming**

_Chapter 11_

The dungeon was stifling that Thursday night. Late-June had brought with it a heat wave, and the heat of the boiling cauldron and the flames licking its base combined with the thick vapours spewing forth to make Harry sweat profusely. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and his collar was open, but even so it was a good thing he had impervioused his glasses. Narcissa wore a dark bodice with loose sleeves which left her neck exposed, her skin also glistening in the heat of the dungeon. Her normally sleek hair frizzed slightly, still maintaining an impressive shine, and Harry could only imagine how wild his own might appear.

Harry stirred the potion clockwise thrice, then counter-clockwise, and added salamander blood. This was the toughest part, the bit where it thickens up and could all go wrong. He had spent every day since Monday researching this, buying every book he could find in Diagon Alley on the topic and sifting through them, doing as Narcissa had taught him, getting to know his ingredients as well as the potion itself. Just as it hardened, he added a sprig of spearmint, and the potions fumes turned cool, the tar-like substance liquifying. Narcissa hummed, impressed.

‘I don’t recall telling you to add spearmint,’ she said appreciatively, inhaling the potion deeply, ‘it’ll be ready soon,’ she added.

‘You told me to get to know my ingredients, so I did,’ Harry said, readying his ladle and flask.

She looked at him, an eyebrow raised. ‘There may yet be hope for you, Potter.’

He smiled as he gave the potion a final stir, and ladled it into his flask. As he did so, she produced a small vial of clear liquid from the folds of her sleeves.

‘The moment of truth,’ he said as he conjured a glass of water and set it on the table before them. She added two drops of veritaserum for good measure. He raised it in a toast to her, and drank.

All at once he felt a haze fall about him, and a hand seemed to guide his speech. ‘That… feels… so weird,’ he mumbled.

‘What is your name?’ she asked him and, without thinking, he replied, ‘Harry James Potter.’

‘How old are you?’

’Seventeen.’

‘What form does your patronus take?’

‘A stag.’

‘When the Dark Lord killed you in the Forbidden Forest, what did I do?’

‘You checked for my pulse.’

‘What did I say?’

‘You asked me if Draco was alive and I told you yes and you told Voldemort I was dead.’

Satisfied, Narcissa lifted Harry’s flask of Veritaserum antidote and was about to hand it over to him, but in the last moment pulled back, leaving his hand floating aimlessly in mid-air. A mischievous smirk crossed her face.

‘Are you a virgin?’

‘No,’ Harry blushed at his deadpan response and held out his hand, his eyebrows knotted in a frown. Narcissa laughed and handed over the flask. 

‘Forgive me,’ she said as he drank deeply and felt the fog leave his mind, ‘it is not often you get to play with someone on Veritaserum. The Weasley girl, I take it?’ she asked, packing up her notes.

‘That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?’ Harry asked, blushing furiously as he bent over his cauldron and ingredients. He paused. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, Draco mentioned that the two of you were an item in your sixth year. One of those awfully long meetings with the Dark Lord where he insisted on knowing everything about you.’ 

Harry turned to look at her.

‘I don’t understand you, or your family, Mrs Malfoy,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ she raised an eyebrow at him.

‘Well, why did you fall in with Voldemort in the first place?’ He noticed she did not flinch at the name. 

‘You’re too young, Harry, you come from a different world, it would be too difficult to explain,’ she said, looking away and collecting her handbag.

‘Try me.’

Narcissa looked at the door as though she was considering leaving him unanswered, but then looked back at him, appraising him.

‘Do you think us evil?’ she asked him.

It was Harry’s turn to look nonplussed. He frowned, and said, ‘You? No. But your husband? Yes.’

‘Why do you make the distinction?’

‘From what I’ve seen, you’ve only ever acted defensively. You have supported your husband, and cared for your son. I admit I don’t know you well, or at all, but that’s what I’ve seen. Your husband, however, actively joined Voldemort. He wore the Dark Mark joined Voldemort the first time round, pretended to be under the Imperius curse to get out of jail time, and led the Death Eaters at the Ministry to capture the prophecy.’

‘Since you make a distinction between my actions and my husband’s, what do you think were our motives? Individually?’

‘For you, defending those you love I suppose, for him, I would have to say power.’

‘And why do people seek power?’

‘For power’s sake, influence, self-aggrandisement, you name it.’

‘Is it not possible for people to seek power, to seek to remodel the world around them, out of good intentions? Such as, to protect those they view to be vulnerable?’

‘But at what cost?’

‘There I will grant you a point, though it is easy to ignore the consequences of one’s actions when one is certain they are doing what’s right.’

‘But how can killing and torturing innocent people be right?’

‘That was not the goal or main intention of the Death Eaters. Think about it Harry, think about the name. Yes, the Dark Lord viewed them simply as lackeys, he even was so arrogant as to think he made them and they were his, but the sentiment of the group, the spirit they stood for, was an ancient one. The Dark Lord simply represented the clearest path towards achieving their goals.’

‘Which were?’

‘Which, it turned out, were rather different from those of the Dark Lord. Whilst he sought to be master of death through invincibility, his aims turned out to be selfish. For those who became Death Eaters out of family tradition, the goal was rather more different. They sought to blur the lines between this world and the beyond. It is because of my husband’s forebears, for instance, that the Veil stands in the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries. We are talking about expanding the limits and reaches of magic. Some say it is impossible, but it is more of a quest for life than an ultimate goal you can carve out. There are notable pure blood poets centuries old who speak of this search.’

‘Where does the pure blood fascination come in if not from a hatred of Muggles and a belief of self-righteousness?’

‘For those on the quest, it is supposed to represent the focusing of magical purity, the concentration of power.’

‘So you’re telling me that this is what your sister was after all along?’ Harry scoffed.

‘No, we were not talking about Bella, but about Lucius. At least, that was what Lucius was like when he was younger. Time makes fools of us all, Harry.’

Harry shuffled the items in his bag around, unsure what this meant. ‘So what happened?’

‘Time,’ Narcissa said slowly, ‘people change.’ With that, she opened the door, but paused over the threshold, looking back at him. ‘So how was she?’

Harry’s face snapped to her, confused. ‘How was who?’ But Narcissa only laughed lightly, and she was gone. _What a strange woman_ , he thought.

_Chapter 12_

Pansy Parkinson muttered to herself as she strode down the Wiltshire country lane. Her shoulders were hunched against the rain, soaking her jet black block cut bob to her face, and her temper was raised. _Honestly_ , she thought, _he was being such a damn baby_. Her foul mood barely lifted at the sight of the albino peacocks she adored so much, though her features did soften as the wrought iron gate reformed before her and asked for her name. She gave it, the irritation still in her voice, and passed through the gates which had temporarily become wisps of smoke. 

The wet gravel crunched beneath her boots as the manor came into view. The stately doors opened without a touch as she approached, and the familiar entrance hall shielded her from the gales which had just picked up. As dark as it was outside with grey, stormy clouds, her eyes still took a second to adjust to the lack of light.

The old chandelier burned feebly above her, yet its light did little to intrude upon the encroaching shadows cast by the large staircase, or cast into the recessed doors and hide-holes in the various corners. She had lost count of the number of times she had been here, and yet there was a decidedly depressed air to the place now that she had not felt before.

‘Well?’ she called out into the ether as the seconds ticked by and no one appeared. 

‘Ah, Pansy, how good of you to drop by,’ came a light woman’s voice. Pansy jumped as she noticed Narcissa Malfoy gliding past the first floor bannister and descending the stairs, her platinum blonde hair eerily luminescent in the dark. 

‘Mrs Malfoy, how are you? I was expecting to see Draco,’ Pansy began but faltered as Narcissa stopped before her. Narcissa gave a sad smile.

‘I am afraid he has been poorly of late, so we sent him off to his godfather’s abroad to recover his health. The weather, you know,’ explained Narcissa, as though Pansy didn’t know better, as though she didn’t know that Draco was frightened out of his skin. So far there had not been a reckoning, not even a word about the old pure blood families who had supported the Dark Lord, and they all lived in fear that that hammer would strike when they least expected it. 

‘Is Mr Malfoy here? My parents have asked that I pass on their regards, as to you.’

‘He has accompanied Draco to his godfather, it would not do for him to travel alone in his condition.’

‘It sounds serious, I hope he gets better soon.’

‘Thank you, we expect warmer weather and clean air will do the trick.’ Pansy wondered how much cleaner the air could be than in the middle of the Wiltshire countryside, and knew that Draco had no difficulty living in the cold and damp, but bit her tongue.

‘I’m sure it will. Erm, I’m a little… perplexed, then. You see, I received a letter and I-‘

‘Ah yes, my letter,’ said Narcissa, still smiling.

‘Oh, yours? I was under the impression it was Draco who sent it,’ Pansy was very much perplexed now, and was eyeing Narcissa nervously.

‘Where are my manners, please Pansy, do come in - can I offer you a drink?’ Narcissa showed Pansy into the drawing room and produced bottles of honey mead and red wine with a flick of her wand.

‘Thanks Mrs Malfoy,’ said Pansy.

‘Oh dear, we’ve known each other for how long now? Call me Cissy,’ waved Narcissa.

Smiling, Pansy sipped her wine and stretched back on the sofa. She had always admired Narcissa Malfoy, the most beautiful, radiant, and important of the pure blood elite. Of course, recent weeks had seen the pure bloods in terror over their futures, and there had been an abrupt halt to the soirees and the dinner party when _that boy_ had somehow done the impossible. Pansy’s own family had been caught in the upset, and her parents were talking about emigrating before they lost everything. Pansy, for her part, thought it would be better to stay and face the music. 

She had not approved of what the Carrows had done, and did not shy away from saying so, and she had no knowledge of the workings of the Dark Lord’s inner circle, but already she could feel the cold attitudes of others when they regarded her, all for her words prior to the start of the Battle. At the end of the day, she didn’t give a damn about He Who Must Not Be Named or _Perfect Potter_ , all she knew was that there were people she cared about in that castle, and they were in danger. If trading the life of one boy - no, he was of age, he was a man - if one man’s life could be given to protect all of her own, wouldn’t that have been the right thing to do? Where did _Gryffindors_ get off holding a monopoly over right and wrong anyway? All because a rotten old hat made them wear red?

On her third glass of wine, Pansy quite forgot about pure bloods, problems, and Potter. The light from the crackling fire in the great fireplace along the room reflected on Narcissa - Cissy’s - pale, bare bosom. She was slender and her breasts were modest, but the bodices she favoured put her on great display, though one could never say it was inelegantly done. 

‘Pansy?’ Cissy cocked her head at the girl, ‘are you alright?’

Pansy shook her head. ‘Yes, of course, I think it’s just the wine,’ she said, looked around at anything other than Cissy. 

‘Oh dear, we have been talking for some time, forgive me. You are of course welcome to stay the night, though if you’ll excuse me I must prepare my lessons.’

‘Hmm?’ Pansy looked questioningly at Cissy, ‘lessons?’

‘Yes, I’m tutoring Potions, as a service to the Society of course, thought it was going to be dreadfully boring but it’s actually proving rather entertaining, plus it gives me the chance to do something,’ she looked down at her almost empty glass of wine, ‘all this waiting is dreadful,’ she finished quietly. ‘Would you like me to show you to a guest room?’ Cissy continued, as though the last phrase had gone unspoken.

Pansy insisted she was fine apparating home, but Cissy wouldn’t hear of it, the risk of splinching greatly increasing after three glasses of wine. Cissy showed her up to a guest bedroom where, with a flick of her wand, the bed was made a fire crackling, gave her towels, and bade her goodnight. Pansy looked at the door Cissy had just closed, and could not help but feel like she was rather lonely, though she would be too, thought Pansy, cooped up in a great big manor on her own all day. No wonder she had called Pansy around, not that she minded, of course. Kicking off her boots and removing her jeans, Pansy hopped onto the bed (the room swayed slightly as she did so) and stared at the ornate ceiling, her hands knitted over her stomach.

The image of Cissy’s pale skin, her long hair and breasts floated across Pansy’s mind’s eye. Looking at the door Cissy had closed and listening hard for any sounds of movement, Pansy lifted her billowing, oversized blouse slightly, and exposed her panties. Closing her eyes and leaning back into the opulent collection of cushions and pillows, Pansy trailed her finger, light as a feather, making as little contact as possible, across the stretched cloth of her panties, lightly grazing across the small bump of her clit’s hood. She imagined her light touch to be the tip of Cissy’s nose as she breathed her in, wanting Pansy as much as Pansy wanted her. 

She pictured Cissy’s blonde hair splayed across her own pale legs, that beautiful woman’s eyelids flickering as she met Pansy’s gaze across her nubile breasts. Her nipples stiffened as the rain battered the manor harder, a slight chill escaping the old sash windows and washing over her. She shivered and pushed her blouse up over her perky, braless breasts, exposing the left one as her finger trailed circles over her clit’s hood. ‘Narcissa,’ she sighed as she cupped her breast in one hand and stroked her opening with the tip of her index finger through the cotton, a thin slither of moisture appearing on the soft cotton. 

Shivering again, this time in anticipation, she hastily slid down her panties and, her feet touching, spread her knees as far as they would go, exposing her moist petals to the cool air. She lay like that and breathed for some time, imagining Cissy stood at the base of her bed. In her mind’s eye, she was exposing herself to Narcissa shamefully, putting her shimmering lips on display like a prize to be claimed. Tearing her blouse off of her over her head, her short hair wildly messed, she put her hands behind her back, locked her arms, and pushed her chest out also. 

Excitement bubbled within her. What she would give for Narcissa to walk in right now and find her exposed - better yet, to find her hands tied behind her back, her legs spread and her lips parted, her young, firm body ready and waiting, desperate to be touched. In her state of heightened arousal, she seriously considered walking out butt naked, going to Cissy, and presenting herself to her, but the fear of rejection kept her rooted to the bed.

With a quiet cry of frustration, she brought her hands back around, but kept her feet together and her knees locked as far apart as possible. Running her hands down her naked body, she plunged two fingers into herself and arched them up, searching for the bumpy flesh within that held the key to her release. With her palm she rubbed her clit whilst she searched, and her other hand pawed at her beasts, occasionally reaching up to her long neck and squeezing. 

‘F-Fuck…’ she moaned, low and desperate as she squeezed her neck and found her spot. The sensitive, soaked walls of her pussy quivered around her curled fingers, a sloshing sound occasionally escaping as she fingered herself faster, the liquid evidence of her desire leaking onto the bed. She imagined it was Narcissa’s fingers in her, Narcissa’s hand around her neck, playing with her breathes. She could almost feel Cissy’s hard nipples grazing her own, hear her call her a filthy little slut, her filthy little slut. Pansy had been enchanted with Narcissa ever since she had first lain eyes upon her, wanted to be like her, to spend time and be with her, and Narcissa had always been nice to her. What started off as a girl’s longing for closeness had turned into a woman’s crush, and Pansy began to chant Cissy’s name under her breath even as she squeezed and pumped. She needed to be owned, humiliated, used and loved by that elegant paragon of beauty only a few rooms away. 

Her hips bucked as she felt her orgasm approaching. She screwed her eyes shut tight and pushed her knees back further, squeezing down on her throat harder than ever as her hand became a blur, her fingers pumping furiously, in and out of her soaking slit. With a final, stifled cry of, ‘Cissy!’, Pansy came, shuddering and squirting slightly, toes curled. 

Her limbs falling in a star, her breathing jagged, she shuddered and shivered as the last waves of orgasm crashed through her.

When at last she was still, she turned to her side and, nude and soaking wet, fell asleep atop of the sheets. Her last thoughts as sleep took her were of a distant hope that Cissy might choose to wake her in person come morning.

_Chapter 13_

Miles away, the wind flapped about the man in black’s robes. They billowed about him as he passed, swiftly and silently, passed the darkened church. A fox dashed out before him. His wand was already in his hand, pointing after it as he stood his ground, ready to die.

He cocked his head as the bushy tail disappeared amongst hedges on the far side of the street. Lowering his wand but keeping it unsheathed, he passed by the quaint village houses. Ahead, the houses ended into a country lane, and he knew his destination was close. A pop sounded behind him, and he twirled about on the spot, falling to one knee, his wand raised in both hands like a revolver.

A hooded figure in similar robes to his had appeared out of nowhere and was gazing at the war memorial further down the road. Turning, the figure saw him and hurried to catch up. He stayed kneeling until her silhouette could be seen - for she was indeed a woman - and he rose and let his wand fall to his side. 

When she approached, all he could see by the moonlight that stole through the clouds was the slither of a masquerade mask upon her face. He produced a medallion from inside his robes with his left hand. She did likewise.

Together, they set off for the house at the end of the lane. As they approached, its ruinous facade became visible to them. Rubble still lay scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage was still standing, though entirely covered in dark ivy. The right side of the top floor had been blown apart. 

Lifting her wand, the witch tapped the thick rusted gate, and a sign rose out of the ground, up through tangles of nettles and weeds, to greet them.

‘I’m smaller, it should be me,’ said the witch. The wizard turned to appraise her, and, agreeing, rose his wand above her head. Giving her a tap, the air around her shimmered, and with a gymnast’s grace she leaped the fence. 

She dared not head straight for the front door. Finding impossible footholds in the jagged brick and mortar in the blasted-out portion of the building, she leapt nimbly from brick to plank, onwards and upwards, until she passed through an invisible barrier that felt like treacle, and landed nimbly on what remained of the nursery.

Carefully, for fear that the boards she stood on might give way at any moment, she pulled out a fragile silver instrument from inside her robes, and laid it, almost lovingly, on what was left of the nursery floor. She tapped it gently with the tip of her wand, and it tinkled into life with rhythmic clinking noises. The minuscule silver tube at the top of the instrument issued forth tiny puffs of pale, colourless smoke. She frowned. 

The moon broke free of a patch of cloud, and its light shone upon her work. With this change, the tiny puffs of smoke turned green, thickened, and divided into two coiling and undulating snakes.

‘And now?’ she whispered, gripped as though on tenterhooks. the snakes entwined each other, twirling each other’s bodies mouth-to-tail, and as each devoured the other’s tail, became an ouroboros. She kneeled, staring at the smoke. When it seems it would no longer change, she lifted her wand, intending to tap it, only to key out in surprise. A cloud of smoke had separated from the instrument, lifted above the ouroboros, formed a bolt of lightning, and rendered the creature down the middle, striking the beast’s skull at the apex. Regarding this development without blinking, the witch waited a second longer, then tapped the instrument, pocketed it, and made to flee the way she had come. 

This time the barrier was much tougher to get through, and as she leaped through it, desperately fighting her way through, she feared it would not let her pass, so was it’s consistency like setting rubber, until she broke free and fell to the grass below. Cushioning herself with a Charm, she narrowly avoided hitting her head on the rubble below.

When she had cleared the gate, her partner turned to her questioningly. 

‘It is so much more than we knew.’


End file.
